


Fallout Self Indulgence Ch. 1

by lilappleblossom



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drinking, From Sex to Love, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilappleblossom/pseuds/lilappleblossom
Summary: Some self-indulgence that my husband and I wrote for my SS and all the characters I love. Mostly Sole/Hancock but other character may be involved later. Just something for fun, not meant to be taken seriously. Let me know if you enjoy it. The Sole Survivor in this is not the same from the game. No Shaun, no dead husband, just a dumb kid that got lucky.





	Fallout Self Indulgence Ch. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some self-indulgence that my husband and I wrote for my SS and all the characters I love. Mostly Sole/Hancock but other character may be involved later. Just something for fun, not meant to be taken seriously. Let me know if you enjoy it. The Sole Survivor in this is not the same from the game. No Shaun, no dead husband, just a dumb kid that got lucky.

It’s been almost a year since I became known as the ‘Sole Survivor’, thanks to Travis at Diamond City Radio. Stumbling my way out of that fridge into a fucked up world wasn’t my idea of fun, but my Pre-War life wasn't much to write home about either. 

I was working in a Super Duper Mart as a cashier, and I fucking hated it. There were days I wished the world would just explode and wipe society off of the chalk-dusted slate so we could start fresh. I never really thought any further beyond surviving that particular circumstance, so it simmered in the back of my head as I cranked my fakest smile and let each scanned item beep away the seconds and minutes of my existence.

Then the bombs were dropping, and I was forced to get desperately creative.

I’m not proud of what I did. 

At that time, my dad had cancer from a string of faulty safety equipment in the nearest Corvega auto plant. He was dying slowly, and my mom was running herself ragged staying home to monitor his medication and treatments. The company sent a check each month to help with the expenses of blood transfusions, but dad got depressed and spent it on top shelf whiskey and cigars. As dad blew away his savings account and mom enabled his bad habits via 'Good Housewife’ indoctrination, I worked to keep my employee discount for the groceries and essentials Dad didn't see any point in needing much longer. 

The TV was on in my bedroom while they were reading in the main room. I almost didn't notice the first time the newscaster mentioned bombs, and it took him listing all the cities experiencing nuclear annihilation for me to comprehend what was actually happening.

It numbed me completely.

Then I remembered seeing a Vault-tec rep going door to door, filing applications for the Vault just up the hill a few blocks away.

I knew what I had to do.

I stood up, walked to the living room, and told my parents I’d be going out for a walk. I told them I loved them, I said goodbye. Mom returned the sentiment, Dad flicked his cigar and grunted, and I smiled like everything normal.

As soon as the door was closed, I ran as fast I could.

Look, I said I’m not proud of it alright? But honestly, it was the best thing for those two if they went quickly, together, thinking everything was normal. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. 

I ran the long way around, nearly pissing myself when I saw the men in army fatigues and machine gun wielding suits of power armor. People were crying, the army men were barking orders, and a Vertibird’s engines added to the noise and chaos of the scene, helped to cover me as I jumped the fence surrounding the Vault. 

Then the flash of light happened. It was light taking headlights straight to the eyes on the dark, and as I blinked through the spots in my eyes, I saw the rising cloud on the horizon, rising up like an ashen tree of death. 

This was it.

Tears in my eyes, I sprinted to the closing blast doors. I remember hearing shouts and gunfire, and remembering my softball practice, saw those closing doors as home base. Dropping, I slide across the hot metal and into hole as it closed. 

Unfortunately, home base was an elevator shaft, and I remember screaming the twenty or so feet down onto one of my neighbors. Lucky for me he was in pretty good shape, and he half caught me as we both hit the descending platform.

The other people that were there were pissed but what could they do? Kick me out?

At least the guy and his wife were cool about it. She was holding a baby, and made everyone else swear to shut up about me 'not bring on the list’. The guy said I was brave.

I didn't mention anything about my parents.

What happens next it still hazy: scientists, blue jumpsuits, decontamination. Everyone reasuring everyone else that it was all going to be okay.

Then I get frozen for God knows how long and have to claw my way out of a pod. I remember a massive headache, cotton mouth, and really having to piss. The dust covered terminal next to my refrigerator said something about aborting due to a system malfunction. I checked on the pods of the couple that helped save me: deceased. Everyone else’s pods seemed to have fucked up in their own way. I didn’t spend long there to think about it.

After a few hours of panicked crying, fighting off dog sized roaches, and contemplating putting a bullet in my head from the pistol I found, I find a fancy-ass arm computer called a Pip-Boy, figure out how to crack open the stupidly heavy vault door with it, and take the elevator back up home.

Instead home is… just gone. Rusted, overgrown, bomb-blasted. 

Now I’m in this world of twisted metal, overgrown weeds and broken relics of my time. 

I made my way to my old house, found my parents skeletons, still sitting on the couch where I left them.

I still try to tell myself my folks probably didn't suffer for long.

It couldn't stand seeing their open jaws and empty eye sockets there for long, so I collected their bones, found a shovel that was still mostly intact, and dug a shallow grave. At some point I spilled their remains in, and I couldn't tell who’s belonged to who.  
It was then that I finally broke into a bawling mess. I wanted to crawl into that grave and let the wind and rain fill it in for me. I wanted to smash their brittle skulls for having the decency to die two hundred years ago; I didn't know that for sure at the time, but I knew bones don't get bleached white and fleshless in a few years. They had been there long enough for everything I had ever recognized about my life to rot and rust into bone.

By the time I had dry heaved all of the tears and pity out of my chest, a tinny, haughty voice called out next door. Apparently the neighbors had a Mr. Handy still floating around, and he recognized me.

Bots still weird me out, but I was weirdly comforted to hear a voice that knew my name.

The conversation instantly got awkwardly depressing when I told him everyone else in the vault was dead.

I spent a few weeks in my old house, trying to make it liveable, cutting my hands on rusty sheet metal and wrapping myself in the threadbare remains of my old bed. Turns out the boy's name was Codsworth, and despite his protocols to serve, he would always return to the other yard after assisting me in scrounging for stale food and dirty water. My room didn't have as many leaks after his help, but I quickly couldn't stand his ramblings about his 'old masters’. I packed the little I had and crossed the rickety bridge out of Sanctuary Springs early in the morning, and swore to tune out the memory of his artificial depression forever.

I wasn’t a farmer, considering two centuries ago I was in Junior college and knew the codes to weigh bananas on a scale without looking it up, but when Codsworth had once mentioned a big farm south of town,I knew it at least meant something to do and real food in my stomach. One can only eat so many Dandy Boy Apples and Sugar Bombs with laughable expiration dates for so long, so I made that may destination. Actually had to use my pistol on a family of mole rats that decided to explode from the ground and absolutely scared the piss out of me. Those fuckers teeth are huge if you're a scared twenty something year old with no experience in post-nuclear hell, and I was lucky that I had kept my Vault suit on; the leather on the arms is thick, and when one started gnawing on me, I was able to shoot its face off before it took my hand. The others scattered, but I was bleeding. 

Panicked and exhausted, I eventually made it to the Abernathy homestead, basically a huge treehouse built around an unpowered electric tower. With blood and dirt covering my arm, I must have really looked the part of the helpless trauma survivor, and one of the farmhands dropped his tools to take me inside. When a motherly woman with crows feet and empathetic eyes knelt by me to ask what my name was, I lost it again. Full on snot-nosed, honking ugly cry that took all the energy out of me and had me clutching onto her apron. She didn't fight me, just gathered me up and found me a bed for me to collapse in and some bandages for my wrist.

It turned out that the Abernathy’s are genuinely good people, as fucking rare as that is in the wastelands. I think they saw their daughter in me, another snappy redhead that under normal circumstances, prided in triumphing when faced with idiocy. I found her grave three days into living there, killed by a bunch of violent assholes who rolled up on their farm to bully them for food. Found out that day that the local term for lawless junkies with guns are 'Raiders’, and that Gina had gotten fed up with being pushed around. It earned her six to the chest and the grief of her family.

After about a month, the blisters on my hands started to turn into calluses, and the baby fat from living and easy life, once upon a time, and began to turn into lean muscle. I was another month to feed, but apparently on a farm, it also meant more hands to make food with. I was left a little hungry at the end if each day, but what I did put in my mouth wasn't mouldy or had the metallic tingle of radiation. I only learned about how to spot it, as my only previous experience had been through Pre-War classroom projections, and Mrs. Abernathy said that if I hadn't gotten my mole rat bite treated right, it could have gotten real bad. 

I missed my easy life, but at least every day was a bit different from the last. I was doing something. I was feeding myself and the rest of the Abernathy's. I was learning how to fix stuff, shit that they couldn't afford to just buy another of. I was waking up sore, but not miserable. After two months, I folded away my Vault suit for worn but simple clothes, and after three, I had a nice natural bronze to my skin and some muscle in my arms. Mr. Abernathy even took time out of the day to practice shooting at tin cans, and by the next month I had nailed a feral dog on the run with one of our chickens.

The chicken died, but I popped that fucker in the head, on the run and just before jumping over the fence.

Then the Raiders came.

Nine of them, savage looking fucks wearing bolt-studded leather and blood crusted mowhawks. They made a big show of kicking at the unarmed farmhands, and shot at our cat. It got winged in the ear, but ran off hissing. Mr. Abernathy had gotten good about hiding most of our stores away in a hidden basement, but that didn't stop me from feeling the fumes of helpless fury as a pockmarked chick with big, black painted lips and a ruined right eye sneer and lick the sweat off of my shoulder. 

Mrs. Abernathy kept her face stern and her eyes dry as the leader took a piss on Gina's grave. I felt my teeth grind as I witnessed the shrimp-dicked asshole desecrate her resting place.

They left as the sun started going down. I smeared engine grease over my eyes, tied up my dreadlocking hair, and loaded my pistol with all the ammo I had. 

I couldn't bear to see that look, that heartbreak and palpable hatred in the Abernathy's faces again.

They headed west, so the setting sun outlined their silhouettes and drew long shadows for me to hide in. Months ago, the journey from Sanctuary to the farm felt like a death march. That night, navigating the ruins felt like a walk in the park. Before, the holstered 10mm semi-auto felt like a lead weight on my hip. It had then become a reassurance. And with all the rage in me, I felt like I could tear the world asunder.

Looking back, I was still an idiot kid out for revenge with absolutely zero experience in killing people, but I didn't care. I was going to take at least one of these fuckers down, and if I died, then at least Mr. or Mrs. Abernathy wouldn't have to see it. They wouldn't need to bury me.

When I found their camp, a hollowed out and gore decorated leftover of a post office, I remember waiting and watching the place get louder and wilder as the Raiders got drunk off of grain alcohol. What did they have to worry about, right? The Abernathy's had never gone after their stolen food, there was no such thing as police or law, and the one time someone had stood up to them, they had perforated her and literally pissed on her grave.

The stars slowly shifted over my head as a half moon rose onto the night sky, and the shooting and belching and fucking eventually died down. Trembling in terror and rage, I slowly made my way down the street, avoiding broken glass and mortar as best I could. I smelled tobacco, and saw the cherry glow of a cigarette and silver smoke exhale from a slouching man in dirty overalls. I recognize that long, deep breath of someone on the edge of passing out drunk, a state I often saw my dad in.

His neck is a lot thicker than a chicken’s, but I had learned how to slaughter a pig a few weeks before, and my little utility knife opened up his throat and arteries just the same. His lungs instantly filled with blood as he inhaled, and I took my time to watch him make wet sucking noises as he drowned. 

This one had shot at our kitty. He recognized me recognizing him as he died, and as I sat on his chest and watched the pool of blood grow beneath him, I made a gesture of licking my paw and cleaning my face with it. 

People have a lot of blood, I found out, and when his chest stopped convulsing and his eyes stopped reflecting the moon, I knew I could keep doing this.

He was carrying a machete. It made killing the rest of them a lot easier.

By the time I had counted to nine, my hands we're sticking with the coppery sap of drying blood. Whoever didn't have a new smile opened from the front, had a wedge of bone exposed from the back. Filth clung to me, and my arms were sore from all the work, but shock and adrenaline kept me tireless until there was nobody left to slaughter. 

For the third time since I remember since those Vault doors opened, I wept. 

I wasn't innocent any longer.

But I learned that wasteland justice is payed for in blood.

I woke up the next morning with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, the gory machete in the other, and my body stiffly laid out on a package conveyor belt. I reeked of death and vomit, but I was alive. The last night’s memory hadn't left me, and seeing the corpses of the Raiders in the morning light tied my stomach into even tighter knots, but fuck, I was alive. 

And I had survived with nothing but a big knife and my own hands.

The return trip took a lot longer, what with all the stolen goods I was bringing back home, but by the time the sun was at around four of clock. I was passing through the gates if the farm.

This time, everyone dropped what they were doing.

Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy ran out to me, but I didn't cry and fall into their arms. Instead, I dropped my bags and pulled out a worn locket I had pulled off of the shrimp-dick. 

It was Gina’s.

It was the Abernathy's that fell and began to cry.

I stayed there for another week before I started to feel out of place. Mrs. Abernathy said that I was still welcome, and that there was no way they could ever repay me for avenging Gina, but I saw the way the other farmhands looked at me while I worked. I wasn't just some girl with a tragic past and soft eyes anymore. One of the younger boys had peeked at me when I was washing the gore off of that evening, how red the tub got when I crawled out of it. How I picked the flesh from my nails as I stood naked, unashamed. To some, I was a hero, a fearless avenger.

But to the rest, like that boy, I was a threat. 

A savage. 

A monster.

Cool. I found out I could deal with that.

I had never quite gotten to the point where I had started calling Mrs. Abernathy mom, but when I started talking about leaving, I saw the pain of a mother losing another daughter. Mr. Abernathy pulled me aside a few days later, with the same caution and respect he would have when handling the bull Brahman we corralled behind the farm,and started talking about to me about Diamond City. I had heard about it on the radio, usually tuning out the bumbling DJ that came on during the day and listening to the music or my past at night. I remember him talking about opportunities, safety, a way to make a name for myself. 

I had told him that I was content in wandering, seeing the ruins of whatever landmarks I had remembered seeing as a kid; the Corvega showroom floor my dad hoped to work in, the old Fort Independence I visited during a field trip, the baseball field my family took me to when I was little and my folks were happy.

He said if I headed anywhere else than Diamond City, I'd risk turning into a Raider, drinking and stealing and killing all the same as the fuckers I had murdered.

I don't remember agreeing with him, but I don't remember him being wrong, either.

I left with a Brahman caravan about two weeks later. I told Mrs. Abernathy that I'd come back once I was sure all of the food we had traded for clothes and ammo would go to hungry mouths, but I'm pretty sure she knew I was saying goodbye for good. She physically had trouble letting me go, and there was a part of me that wanted to fall apart with her and become a sobbing mess together. I won't say that I’ve lost the capacity to cry, but I was pretty dried up around then, and I there was enough of me to push the old part or me aside and make room for the harder version of me to start making decisions.

I didn't make any friends with anyone in the caravan, and it was a good thing too, because one of the guards got killed by a nest of bloodbugs when he went to take a shit the next day, and another took the heavy end if a sledgehammer to the ribs when a lone super mutant tried to eat one of our Brahman. Turns out to takes more than a machete and a sidearm to kill one of those fuckers, but half a drum mag from an auto shotgun will do just fine. The mutant ate a few ounces of buckshot when I held the trigger down in what became the stump of his neck, but the other guy didn't wake up the next morning. Apparently his ribs had pierced his heart, and there wasn't a damned thing we could do about it so the lead caravanner told me to say a prayer for him but to put on his leathers and and keep the twin moving.

I learned another important lesson that day: you keep what you kill, or in some cases, you take what the dead doesn't have use of anymore. The guard was a skinny dude with a French accent and the jacket he wore was tight in the chest, but leaving it half zipped meant I could breathe easier and show off my tits alittle. Helpful for when I would learn lesson three.

Oh, and that shotgun is badass. He called it Le Fusil Terribles, but there's nothing terrible about it. I had never fired a gun that big before, and I nearly broke my wrist trying to one-hand it's barrel into the mutant's mouth, but there's nothing more satisfying than seeming some poor schmuck’s face look down the wrong end of its barrel.

So, it's day four, and we were just entering what I knew as the City of Boston's limits, when the silence is broken by a thunderstorm of automatic fire. We take cover behind some wrecked cars and prepare for the worst, when the shooting starts turning into screaming. Not the screeching of innocent folk or the barking of trained mercs, but the panicked, drug fueled wailing of Raiders getting what's to them. I didn't know the difference back then, but I knew something was off when the shooting became more sporadic and the voices cried in terror like 'It won't die!’ and 'Get it off of me!’. Someone whispered something about a Deathclaw, and I had no idea what that was, but I knew it didn't sound good, and started to follow the others in trying to turn the Brahmin around and prepare to fight our way back out.

I look over my shoulder and the screaming is reduced to one muffled yelp, and I see a guy wearing a gas mask collapse just around the corner.

Then he screams, and is dragged back.

And all is quiet.

Until a dog barks in that direction.

I flinch, expecting to hear the tell tale 'yipe’ of a canine getting hurt, but I keep hearing the barking instead, followed by aggressive growling and the Raider screaming for mercy.

Shotgun up, I pad carefully towards the scene, and the caravaners hiss at me as they whisper for me to turn around. But it doesn't feel wrong, you know? I had pissed myself scared once or twice prior, but this didn't feel wrong or scary.

I turn the corner, and there's a German Shepherd sitting down, panting happily centered by half a dozen freshly bleeding bodies. His muzzle is soaked in gore, but he wags his tail at me like he’d just performed a trick and was expecting his milkbone. 

The Raider begs and crawls towards me, but I blow the back of his skull off to see what the dog does. His ears flinch and he tilts his head towards the limp fuck, but turns back to me keeps on panting, drooling pink saliva. 

I remember saying 'good boy’, impressed by all the torn throats of the other raiders, and he barks in an affirmative.

That was the day I found Dogmeat.

Don't laugh, it's not a stupid name. It's the first thing I thought of, and he didn't seem to mind, so it stuck. I had a German Shepherd way back when I was a kid, but he died when I was little, and I swore I would get another one. They're so fucking smart, you know? Especially Dogmeat. I swear he actually knows what I'm saying. Maybe he evolved with the radiation or something, but that dog is the first good thing, really good, normal thing, that had happened to me since getting out of the cooler. I go everywhere with that dog, and I love the shit out of him. He’s the best dog in the world, and I will fight you if you say otherwise.

By day five, we reached Diamond City, and it took a few double and triple takes to realize that I was in Fenway Park, the baseball stadium my folks had taken me to when I was younger. I'm caught between the depression of seeing two hundred years of war and famine surrounding the building, and the pride of seeing how it's not only survived, but had warded off the worst of what time and nuclear devastation had thrown at it. A statue of some forgotten baseball player stands pockmarked but intact, and the deep, solid green of the walls looks almost fresh, maintained with pride. Security guards in retrofitted catcher's pads patrol with rifles on their shoulders, but their waves and nods are friendly, even welcoming. It was the first time I had ever felt… normal. Like life wasn't so bad here, and that there was some hope for living as close a civilized life as one could after the apocalypse.

Seeing the city on the inside made me downright emotional. Seeing it at night, with a few drinks in me, brought happy tears to my eyes. Between the life, the lights, and the sack of bottle caps standing in as cash I had earned for helping get the caravan to Diamond City, I was in a fucking good mood. Strangers nodded to me with the respect of a woman who had seen, and felt with some shit, and by beer number three and shot number two, I was right and properly drunk.

Then I had a sobering thought.

I could step outside those gates, get killed by one of a hundred things that wanted me dead, and I could die a virgin.

That obviously had to change that night.

Now, that's not to say that I was a maiden in purest form, even before the bombs. I hadn't actually fucked anyone, but I wasn't a prude, I had my personal kinks, and had muscled through the hard part of virginity via a harlequin novel and a hairbrush. I was still young, was in the best physical shape of my life, and had wore leather jacket that was only half zipped in a world where bras no longer existed. 

Remember when I talked about lesson number three?

A woman's most powerful weapon is her sexuality, and how they choose to use it. It could either be a prize or a weapon, and I intended to find a nice wet stone and learn how to grind it until I was sharp.

He was a Diamond City Guard just coming off duty, and had the face of a young man that wanted to make someone proud.

I felt bad locking Dogmeat in the bathroom, but he paid for the room, and I let find out what isotope-less pussy tasted like.

He wasn't bad by any means, and became a good standard for me to base my other experiences in. The next day, I decided to make the Dugout Inn my next temporary home, as long as I had the caps for it, and I became known as a fresh lay and willing to negotiate the price of my acquaintance. I wasn't being a whore, I was just… not being taken advantage of. I did a pretty good job of acting like I knew what I was doing, until I knew what I was doing, and by then I was really good. The bartender's brother didn't like me so much, but the bartender took a shining to me, and after breaking the jaw of a drunk who thought he could muscle his way into getting a taste for free, offered me a job to bounce. 

It was right about then that I heard about Piper. Her name was either spoken in hushed tones or spat out in disgust, which meant that I knew I had to meet this woman. Anyone who could start a fuss and not even be in town was a person with power, and I needed to meet another woman with all the moxy and attitude it took to make the men of the city all react in varying degrees of intrigue.

I had the chance when the Mayor of the town, who was enough of a characterture a chubby, weaseled politician as it was, went grinding on by cursing her name.at this point I had a habit of getting buzzed in the afternoon, so I followed at a distance and came upon a scene. It boiled down to him trying to lock her out of the city, and her reminding him that he's a lying asshole and that her news stories were the only truths she could deliver into the hands of the residents of Diamond City.

But she didn't win that argument by cursing or screaming. She won by backing him into a mental corner and outwitting him. It was verbal chess, and she was the Queen.

If never been attracted to a woman before, but that changed when McDonough stomped past me and Piper made eye contact, I saw her read me, like an open magazine. She wasn't passing judgement, she was learning my story, piecing together all the visual clues of my appearance, my attitude, my interest.

She seemed impressed, and interested too. She knew I had a story to tell.

And that damned smirk. That confident, cocky, surefire smile that turned her full lips up just enough to let her knew what she thought of you.

The first few nights we spent talking over beers and her drinking down the details of my nearly unbelievable story. The next few we got really drunk, and I discovered what it's like to wake up the next morning with a satisfied woman in my sheets.

Between the booze, the books, and the sex, I got caught up on everything that happened after the big war, or at least what could be remembered of it. I learned about the Commonwealth, the Fort, The Institute, and about all of the things that changed names from when I knew them as. I learned of important names, of people who have changed the status quo of some people's lives, of faces to keep my eyes out for, in case I ran into them, and whether or not they deserved a handshake, or a bullet between the eyes.

But I wasn't ready to brave the wastes on my own yet, and I was finally running out of money, so I decided to try the hard and fast life as a mercenary. Apparently it was a respectable profession as long as I didn't lose my mind and go around killing everyone I ran into in the wastes, and according to Piper, I had everything I needed: a gun, a blade, something to cover my tits, and an attitude. My reputation would be what I worked on next, which would come from the actions I took, and how much I wanted to embellish them. If I had a sharp enough tongue (of which she said was just to her taste), I could make anyone see things my way, as long as I believed it with every fiber of my soul.

So that's when I officially became a Merc. Found some missing people, solved some murders, and occasionally dislocated some shoulders. Six months of working on a farm made me alot tougher than I ever thought I'd be, and Piper taught me the intricacies of playing 'Good Cop, Bad Cop’. It helped that she was no slouch in a fight either, and she passed on her experiences traveling the ruins of the Commonwealth with stories, first hand encounters, and the occasional tussle with an unloaded gun. It's good to know what to do when someone gets the drop on you and presses a barrel to the back of your skull. 

Piper and I had a good thing going, then she started obsess over some really wild shit. The people we couldn't find were all being scooped up by The Institute. Others were somehow being replaced by what she called Synths, robots that looked and acted and felt just like humans. Said that I could have fucked one, and I would t have even know the difference. A section of her wall started to get covered in photographs and scribbles of paper and red string, and all of the energy and panache I had fallen for became tissue-thin theories and late night rantings. 

It was all a little too high over my head, and it went too far when she tried to tell me that I could be a Synth and not even know it. I told her that she had made herself comfortable between my legs too many times for her to even consider it, but we were both a few shots in and our voices got louder and meaner. Got to a point where glass got thrown around and I cut my hand up pretty bad, but for some reason, not even that was enough to make her sure, even if she wanted to believe me.

I told her that she could spend a few nights in my cryopod and stare at all the half frozen corpses of my Vault if she needed more convincing. For the first time in a few months, I slept at the Dugout Inn again, and drunk fucked some city guards as I felt sorry for myself. 

The next day, she found me nursing a hangover with some spicy ramen, and tried to apologize. I heard her, but I didn't really listen. I had already been hurt, and I'm the type that stays sore for a long time before getting over shit. She wanted me to stay the night at her place again, but I told her I was ready to move on. 

She said that I always had a place to crash at, even if she wasn't home. Her little sister would still open the door for me.

I told her I appreciated it, and next time I was in Diamond City, I'd ask for her.

I do miss her, but I had to step away from her crazy for awhile. 

By this point, I figured I was hard enough to leave the city walls for a while and follow some leads on jobs. I wouldn't be alone, since Dogmeat was eager to go out into the wilds despite getting a little fat off of table scraps, and bring free to stick a machete in someone's neck without judgement was liberating. Dogmeat didn't want to know that Raider's particular story before he bled out from gunshot wounds. All he needed was gristle to gnaw on and human femurs to play fetch with. I love that about him.

One day, while stalking a pack of roving rad-wolves that had been getting clever about hitting and running slow caravans, a rip of automatic fire broke the silence and scared off the wolves. I hadn't heard a gun quite as loud and fast before, so as Dogmeat and I approached the gun fight, we came across something I thought I never see; ghouls, fighting other ghouls.

Except a handful of those ghouls were wearing pinstripe suits, fedoras, and wielding Tommy Guns.

The suits looked like there were about to get overrun, so I unshouldered Le Fusil and started blasting away. I had learned by then that you always shot at their legs first, hopefully taking a foot or a knee off before letting the recoil pick the barrel up and blast into their chest or head with the follow up shot. In a few strokes, the ferals were dead, and the classy ghouls blew at the smoking barrels of their sub-guns, squinting hard at me. I must have been squinting just as hard back, since I'd never seen ghouls so articulate before, and I was genuinely surprised when they thanked me for the assistance. Their voices were like ninety year old chain smokers who had worked in diners for half their lives, but were completely articulate. Piper had let me know that some folks became ghouls and didn't immediately become feral, but it the first time I had ever seen them act so…

Stereotypically Gangster.

I loved it. 

They had places to be, but pointed out a path to a town where anyone was welcome. Said that if I wanted to find a place where I could rest my heels and not worrying about being judged for what I looked like, it was the place to be.

Which made sense, since the first time you saw me, my red dreadlocks were down to my waist, I had a bar of black grease over my eyes, and my clothes were a patchwork of leather, metal plates, and riveted spikes.

But I had a dog that looked happy, and I didn't shoot the talking ghouls on site, so I couldn't have been all that bad.

The place is called Goodneighbor, I thought it’s name is ironic since there was nothing else 'neighboring' the place except for Feral nests and Super Mutant strongholds, but I couldn't know for sure until I saw it for myself. So, after a bit of a rest for me and Dogmeat amongst the corpses, I head down that path I was recommended. I figured after all the scavenging and headhunting I had been up to, I could treat myself to at least one night’s drinking. The path leads me down an alley and around a tangled corner of twisted girders and sheet metal. The entrance proves surprisingly hard to find in all the shadows of collapsed buildings and cracked overpasses, up until I see bright, red and blue neon lights in the gloom, pointing me in the right direction with the cheery title of 'Goodneighbor’. 

I remember smiling at the sign. It was nice to see the electric script outside of Diamond City, each letter whole and not flickering, even if it made a good game to play when I was alone when I wanted to see what the flickers spelled out in Morse code.

The gate is a thick, rust-spotted metal door that keeps the rest of the Commonwealth sealed out, and I pet Dogmeat’s head when he whines curiously. I pushed the door with a heavy squealing of steel on steel, and he flicks his ears and gaze back from me and the door as if to say, 'after you’. With a shrug, I step through and let the door close heavily behind me.

The cobblestones of the narrow streets and brick walls of the colonial-styled buildings have a damp, slick look about them, There’s a strong scent of mold, fresh garbage, and other gross shit that reminded me more of a dumpster than a settlement. The gas lamps are smudged with black soot, cobwebs, and a mysterious milky white substance that I didn’t want to think too much on. 

I will admit, my first thought was of how bad this place could use a street sweeper, or maybe a flame thrower.

Then some asshole snaps me out of my reverie,

“Hey!”

I look over to meet eyes with some skinhead wearing a steel-plated leather jacket, jack-boots and a pistol on his hip. He lights up a cigarette while he studies me, and I do the same as the tension grows.

Six foot three, muscular, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds? Hard to tell with the armor, he has another weapon on his back, a machete like mine by the look of the handle. The glint in his eyes as he looks me over tells me he’s looking for a toll fee, either in caps or pussy. Neither of which I’m willing to give out within my first three steps into the place.

I finally get tired of the stare off, and raising an eyebrow so I don't look impressed, fire back, 

“Yeah?”

“First time in Goodneighbor? You can’t be walking around without insurance.” He says and I laugh. You’d think after two hundred years without gangster movies, crooks would get a little more inspired, but between the fedora wearing ghouls and this clown, guess it’ll take another two hundred or so.

“Go stick your dick in a mole rat nest. You’re not getting my caps.” I say, crossing my arms as Dogmeat growls to punctuate my sincerity.

The skinhead straightens up from his post, keeping a hand on the pistol on his hip, “Hey, it's doesn't have to be caps, doll. Goodneighbor’s a community, which means we all need to pitch in. Maybe I'll take that shotgun of yours, huh? Hold onto it so you don't start any trouble.”

“Yeah...You wanna start trouble? You go ahead and try to take it from me and I’ll paint this lovely quarter with your fucking grey matter.” I reply, holding the shotgun at the ready. “I may be new to the place but I ain’t new to assholes, so step off.”

A wild look opens up his eyes, but before I switch the safety off and move to aim for his nutsack, a voice cuts in,

“Finn… degrading yourself to shakedowns at the door? I'm disappointed in you.”

I nearly flick the shotgun in that direction, and for the second time within an hour, find myself confused, surprised, and impressed. 

To most, the ghoul probably seems to be wearing a costume of ridiculous style, but memories of high school history classes, and student field trips, told me that what we wore were pieces of American history. Old American history, Declaration of Independence old. 

The tricorn hat. The red frock coat. The high boots and the frilled collar. The flag wrapped around his waist like a sash was a strange touch, but everything else screamed Colonial fashion.

But it’s black eyes, and ruined skin, and the noseless face that turn it from period piece to gothic horror.

The asshole named Finn flinches and turns to the ghoul,

“Goodneighbor isn't for every pussy who decides to wander in, Hancock.”

I want to blow his legs off just for saying that, but I also want to hear what this dude has to say,

“Where's your hospitality, brother? She may be a lady, but I don't see a pussy holding that shotgun at your dick.”

The asshole spits in my direction, but turns to the frocked ghoul, 

“You're getting soft, Hancock and sooner or later someone's going to notice and make you about as dead as you look.”

Hancock. Of course his name is Hancock.

He steps over to Finn, his hands open in casual neutrality,

“Come on now Finn, you're too wound up today. Why don't you take a load off, share a drink in my office?”

The asshole’s shoulders relax as Hancock claps him on the shoulder…

…as he draws a combat knife from his jacket.

It happens so fast: three stabs to the gut, one in the lower ribs, another in the armpit of his shooting arm, and a final swipe just under his jaw, opening up an artery.

Finn falls over, curling up in a fetal position as he tries to stem the blood loss, but Hancock follows him down, hissing in controlled rage,

“That hurt me more than it hurt you, brother, but I'm going to make the last sixty seconds of your life a lesson to think about what you just said. You disrespect me, you disrespect the dream of Goodneighbor.” He wipes his blade on Finn’s sleeve, “Consider your residency expired.”

I stare for a moment as he stands casually, slipping the knife back under his coat. I lower my shotgun and look from him to Finn’s body then back.

“Uhhhh...Thanks…” I say awkwardly, sliding Les Fusil back to its place on my back. “I could have taken care of him, but fuck, that was fast. And a lot cleaner than what my shottie would have done.”

His living dead face smirks at me,

“You're not wrong, sister, but I didn't need a shootout in my streets today. We have sanctions on noise pollution.”

I must have made a strange face, because he chuckles and smiles,

“Ah, I'm just fucking with ya. As you may have guessed, I’m Mayor Hancock. The city of Goodneighbor extends it's filthy arms in welcome to you.”

I snort and shake my head.

“Oh yeah...I already like this place better than Diamond City.” I say with a nod. “Came in cuz I met up with some of your sharp dressed ghouls fighting your less friendly brothers. They mentioned this place and pointed the way for me. I’m a merc by trade, among other things if the need arises. I’m looking for work, a bed and a drink. Not necessarily in that order.”

He steps over Finn’s leaking body and extends his hand, 

“By the sound of it, you belong here. I didn't catch your name, Miss…?”

“Oh, right. Call me Jo.” I say taking his hand and shaking it. Dogmeat leans forward and sniffs at his coat, gives a playful growl and wags his tail. “That’s Dogmeat, my partner. He’s friendly...Mostly.”

“A red, dreaded battle babe with her pooch, I can dig it. How about a drink in my office?”

I look down to the cooling corpse of Finn,

“You're not gonna stab me, right?”

He throws up an eyebrow,

“You're not gonna be rude, right?”

“Rude? Maybe. Stupid? No.” I reply with a smile. “But I’m up for a drink with a more rotted but ironically less greasy politician.” 

He swings his arm in a wide gesture of welcome, 

“Touche. Right this way, to the Statehouse.”

I follow him up a narrow alleyway that now serves as a main thoroughfare. In the thirty seconds it takes us to walk from the entrance to his place I hear a friendly sounding, female-ish sounding assaultron hocking weapons, a drunk getting tossed out of an old subway entrance by a sharp dressed ghoul, a couple of hookers (ghoul and human alike) calling out flirtatiously to Mayor Hancock and at least one dude barfing in an alley.

It probably says something about me that I feel more at home here than I have anywhere else in my entire life, that includes before the bombs.

Hancock leads me through a door that belongs to the Old State House. I went here on field trips a couple years in a row in grade school. It’s worn, creaks like it’s about to fall apart and the wallpaper is peeling but it always felt old. More mildew mixed with the musty smell that ancient buildings get but it had a sort of charm to it. 

I pause and look at Hancock’s back for a moment. I fucking knew it.

“So those are the legit clothes of John Hancock, huh?” I ask as we walk up a set of winding, creaking stairs. 

“Ah, so we have someone who appreciates history. Yes, and I like you all the more for knowing that.”

He nods to another suited ghoul with a Thompson, pushes open the door at the top of the stairs, and holds the door open for me to reveal a spacious office with a heavy desk at one end, a chemistry lab on the other, and a big fluffy couch in the center of a sea of liquor bottles, empty syringes, and inhalant canisters.

Holy shit, he’s a junkie.

And somehow still Mayor.

“Hm...So I guess the position of Mayor doesn’t come with a maid, huh?” I ask with a smile, kicking a few of the bottles out of the way as I sit down on the couch. Dogmeat walks over and places his head on my leg, I scratch his ear with a smile. “Still, it’s a nice building. Good to know it’s still standing after the bombs.”

Stepping over to the desk, he pulls open a drawer and retrieves a hand rolled… something, and strikes a match off the desk to light it, 

“What got you into old world history? Not a lot of folks wonder about the past before it all went boom.”

“Oh right...I forgot I’m a unicorn around here. I’m from a Vault. The Sole Survivor that Travis on Diamond City radio likes to talk about? Yeah, that’s me.” I reply with a smile as I reach to the table, sorting through the empty bottles until I find one with something still in it. I smell it, bourbon, thank God. I tilt the bottle back and smile. “But you gotta be in the same boat kinda, right? You’re from before the bombs too.”

He lights what I can only guess is a cigarette, but his black eyes widen at my remarks,

“No… no, I'm not, actually. You know, I didn't quite believe what I heard on the radio, and I half expected if I did run into someone with a Vault 111 jumpsuit on, I'd call them out for being a phony. But something tells me that ain't the case.”

“Nope, it was about… shit almost a year ago now that I stumbled out of cryo freeze and walked into...this.” I gesture at our surroundings. “Weirdly, this is a much more rewarding life than the one I had before.”

He takes a long, deep pull from the rolled paper, and blows out a spicy scented cloud. Definitely not a cigarette,

“I don't think Death Metal Valkyrie was a profession you had access to back in the Glory days. And we'll get back to me asking you all sorts of questions everyone else has asked you about the past, but I wanna fast forward to the matter at hand real quick.” 

Hancock flops down onto the couch, kicking a booted heel onto the table, and takes into another deep drag before closing it out of his nose-hole,

“You're making a good first impression on me sister, which is important. But what makes you different from all the other itchy-necked, hatchet wielding psychos out there in our fine Commonwealth? You haven't eaten your dog yet, which I can appreciate.”

Dogmeat tilts his head quizzically, and I tip back the bourbon,

I look at the empty bottle for a moment before placing it back on the cluttered table.

“Well, I don’t know. I guess I’m still trying to figure that out, myself. I don’t want to be a raider. The first time I picked up a weapon was to avenge a family that brought me in. A bunch of raiders rolled up, fucked up their shit and pissed on their daughter’s grave while I was working there as an extra hand.” I sigh and rub at my face, grease coming off on my hand. “That’s the first time I did this to my face. I don’t know why, I saw it in a movie once before the bombs. I hunted those fuckers down and slit their throats one by one. It felt… Really good. Not only to get revenge, but to just prove I wasn’t helpless. But when I came back, everyone at the farm acted… Different. They saw me as a killer, a monster I guess. So I left, did some caravaning, became a merc in Diamond City and now I’m here. Just… Wandering until something feels right, I guess.”

I smile and shrug.

“Not really an exciting story but it’s mine. That’s all I got for now, until I carve a place for myself here.” 

He blows the cloud of spicy scented smoke upwards,

“That's not a bad story, Jo. I believe you when you say it felt good getting back at assholes that shit on some good people. You gotta slit throats sometimes to make things right, especially for those who really have it coming for them, and haven't had anyone ballsy enough to get 'em yet. I respect that.”

He offers the rolled paper to me, and while I haven't quite smoked yet (the taste is shit and I’d rather drink anyway), but I figure whatever he has is good, so I take it and contemplate exactly how to breathe it in before he continues,

“You've got restraint, which means you aren't a feral psychopath, which I appreciate. And you're not scrambling for my Smörgåsbord of goodies on the table, so you don't have a major chem problem, enough to be foaming and biting people once the Psycho ramps up. Instead you go for the bourbon, like a classy person.”

I laugh and shrug as I hold the rolled whatever-it-is in my hand and carefully put it to my lips. I suck in carefully and immediately fall into a hacking cough which makes Hancock laugh his ass off. I hand it back to him, waving my hands as I try to get myself back under control.

“I’m...Not really...Experienced with...Drugs.” I reply, grabbing another bottle, this time I don’t care what it is, and taking a swig to rinse my mouth out. “That tasted like brahmin shit. Jesus…”

“I believe the old world term for that kind of potency was called 'Dank’, but hey, what do I know? I wasn't born two hundred years ago like you were.” He shifts to get a better look at me, “So, you said something about a drink, a job, and a bed, right?”

“Yeah, I got the first one down thanks to you.” I say a little roughly but with a smile. “So, any leads on the other two would be appreciated.”

“Well, the one real place for newer folks to stay is Hotel Rexford. Classy, only slightly in need of repair, and some of the rooms even have plumbing still. You pay extra for those, and the water is still cold, but it's something.”

“Great. That sounds like it's worth the extra caps, not sure when's the last time I had a shower.” I say happily, looking forward to cleaning my armor as well.

“As for jobs?” He opens his mouth and blows a ring of smoke towards the window, “Well, I would have let you plug Finn if I hadn't felt melodramatic, but there's people you can talk to that might be looking for a hand. Check The Third Rail, it's the one place to get good booze and even a bit of entertainment. Tell the bartender your first one is on me, and if he doesn't believe you, tell him I’ll scratch his sticker off and replace it with a picture of Lafayette I found in a gift shop.”

I raise an eyebrow but smile.

“Fair point. That's a good start for me, thanks Hancock.” I reply. “Let me know if I can do anything for you as well. I plan to stick around for a bit and get a feel for the place.”

“Well, I don't like drinking alone, so there's a start.” He rises from the couch, then looks back, “So… you said you spent some time in Diamond City, eh?”

I stand as well and nod.

“Yeah. Got my start as a sort of independent agent there. Piper helped me out getting my feet wet but...eh...the place and everyone in it got really paranoid so I headed out.” I say with a shrug, clicking my tongue at Dogmeat as I head to the door.

He pauses, his hand covering his mouth as if in thought, then puts his free hand on his pocket,

“So, McDonough is still running the place, right?”

“Ugh...that douchebag? Yeah. Fucking sleazeball.” I say shaking my head. “Tried to hire me as a bodyguard or something but said Dogmeat wasn't welcome, he didn't trust dogs or something. I told him to fuck off.”

He seems to think on that, then chuckles, 

“Right? Who the fuck doesn't trust dogs?”

He steps over, offering his hand to Dogmeat, and he earns a few licks before Hancock scratches behind his ears, 

“Yeah, I've heard the guy running the place is a class act. But things are different here at Goodneighbor. You aren’t judged by looks or history here, just by actions. Do right by my people, and you'll be doing right by me. Not hard to understand, right?”

“Not at all, I like things to be straightforward.” I reply, patting Dogmeat’s side. “Thanks again for the drink.”

He nods and smiles his oldly confident, rad-soaked smile,

“Thanks for the chat. I'll be bugging you about all sorts of old memories later.”


End file.
